


Drink Your Testament

by ASignificantWhisper



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Hotel
Genre: Blood and Gore, Consensual Violence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:02:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5244218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASignificantWhisper/pseuds/ASignificantWhisper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A title rather befitting, don't you think?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drink Your Testament

**Author's Note:**

> To be a series. This is just the teaser of a James March/reader imagine fic, but for story purposes, however, I'm giving the character/you/the reader, a name called Yvonne Bennett. It's an AHS fic, so it'll be chalked full of TW, vulgar language, blood, sex, violence, gore, e.t.c, which I'll tag and leave in the notes what each chapter will contain at the beginning, so the reader will know incase they want to be prepared and whatnot. Enjoy my filthy story? IDK. Haha.
> 
> UPDATE : I've lost my muse for this, so unfortunately, I probably won't finish it. :( Maybe a chapter in the future? Who knows? <3

You shout upon no other ears but your own, the echo radiating off the tapering wallpaper. You claw maniacally at the oak door with the torn beds of nails, the polish chipping on your manicure. It was a pathetic poetic facade the way everything had all crumbled around you in such a short amount of time, but you were to blame. You /were/. If your throat hadn’t caught onto the hunger the rest of your body betrayed you with, making it impossible to breathe without feeling the jagged lines of darkness dancing around your vision- until you caved into the persistent, violent urges of your curiosity, then you might not be here in this very moment.

You might not be here in this disgusting, old room that smelled like a closet full of moth balls and dust.

Your nose, it crinkled in blatant distaste. Your tastes, wants, they had maneuvered themselves drastically in the two months since you had taken up residency here at the Hotel Cortez. Wormed their way into needs of lavish, material things beyond your finances. Or your family’s wealth. Shit, even your move into the hotel with your father’s lay off from the factory had been ridiculously poor.

A one bedroom on the highest, most dormant tower of the place. It smelled the way it looked a lot of the time, much like this filth that surrounded you now. And he knew this. Knew the way it crawled across your flesh like a disease that soaked into your pores. You hated him for making you feel so openly ashamed of being materialistic, especially when that was the most common problem on your stacked list of such.

Fuck him, you thought. Why did all serial psychopathic killers have to be such bastards? A little compassionate charm now and then, or at least plaster on the compassion for once, you inwardly chant it to yourself, making it a mantra you would later have to spit at him. He was such a devious, accented flapper, slack jawed, mustached asshole that ruined your peaking expedition. Such a hypocrite that relished in your embarrassment. It was humiliating that this man of all people was not as excited about your first time as you were. You had practically expected it from him the moment you came down from that high, noticing that he was there, remembering who he was, your hand leaving the mid-air, sheathed thick with a glossy layer of crimson.

He had chastised you, called you a rugrat, a harpy little brat lacking brains and self control. He criticized your maturity level at how you couldn’t hold yourself back, only barking at you when the hot tears glazed over your eyes. You could say it wasn’t like him but you knew that would be a lie you told yourself. He had dragged you by your elbow from the room, taking in stride your every insult, your loud tantrum. You had had just tasted the adrenaline and he was so selfish, so fucking selfish for taking it away before the taste could reach the back of your throat. Ironic, you dub it as his fingers close around your neck, the muscles caving to the pain of increasing pressure.

Then. Then you woke up to now. Here. In this god forsaken dump that he had probably used to trap his defying victims in. No, you were better than that. Than all his victims. If he was going to wipe you from this earth then he damn well better do it with respect, do it somewhere not… here.

You finally give into your tired, exhausted will and align your back with the thick oak wood, sliding until you’re slipping atop the floor. You give yourself a moment’s rest, not caring that your back might be facing your demise. Whatever. It was in the category of your brain’s many ‘whatevers’ lately. You curl your stocking clad legs into your dress, the black dress branched out across your knees where the sheer thigh highs stopped near the garter.

That was another thing. You splurged, you used, to gain all these fancy lingerie’s, these fashions, these perfumes, the makeups. You had never cared much for it before, not until him. Yet, here you were, locked in the dimly lit, shadowed room, a sheet of red light occasionally gleaming through the cream curtains that clung to the breeze, curled around the barred window. He knew you wouldn’t scream into the alley for a savior. Knew you wouldn’t dare cast your frame in that window for an onlooker to spot you.

No matter how heated your temper currently was with him, he still knew just exactly what you would and would not do. You can only sigh at that, the jury still out on if it was a blessing to have someone know you inside and out, or a fucking curse. As you toe off your stilettos to relieve the ache in the balls of your feet, a soft cheer erupts from the night air, signaling to you what you already knew. Old timers happy hour for the lovers, the lonely.

You were the latter… the in betweener if you will.

Billie Holiday’s sweet voice had begun a soft march that carried in bopping echoes from the joint, right up into your occupying window, caressing your senses until you were on your back on the floor, knees up, feet planted. You folded your hands over your navel, your eyes watching the red light dance shadows on the ceiling. You’re caught in a melodic manner, relaxing more than you could’ve imagined. That is until the gap underneath the door catches on a shadow that you feel before you see. When you open your eyes you’re met with those big brown orbs staring back at you.

Can’t say that you were surprised. He did love the cat and mouse game. The smug fucker. Had to be all that mysterious, old world charm you weren’t directly born into. You were almost jealous of the sure way he seemed to carry himself from being born into that generation. You hum lightly through parted lips, trying to tune him out. You would make the best of this, his games be damned. You were past the point of fed up. You hear him shuffle once more, you note he must be on his back now too.

He’s the first one to speak. That accent is careful to proportion the words in such a soft, respectful manner that you have to look at the light filled gap where the shadow lay, perched on the other side, slightly immersed into what he was coming up with.

“Hmm, I remember this one. Lovely dame. It’s a shame I had to go before this tune came out.”

You listen, cheek propped on an open palm now.

“When everything is just right, I like to come in here. You can hear it best here. Sometimes I watch below, at the lazy lovers holding onto their dames, and I wonder.. if I could go beyond these walls what it would be like to be down there. I can taste their ghostly reactions on my mouth. Their fear, but their comfort when they perish to this in my arms.”

“Mhm.” Is your only response for a moment. How could you argue to that? In your broken reverie, being swayed by this man into your death didn’t sound too bad. One of his many light hearted gestures, you guess, realizing how fucked up your reasoning, your new logic sounded. “but you locked me in here, James, and I thought it was because I was a.. what was it? A harpy, immature, brat.” You use your sarcastic air quotes as your tongue curls around the pronunciation of the word 'immature’.

You hear a rather throaty laugh on the other side of the wooded barrier. “Don’t you dare leave out lack of self control, my blue eyed darlin’. Your youth of today speeds through everything without a second thought. Without appreciating it. That’s why it all crumbles when you try to keep it held upright. Tsk, tsk. Living isn’t for the faint hearted fools, Yvonne.”

“Your death should be reason enough for your status quo, March.”

“Ah, but it was a betrayal beyond my control, you know of this. Aren’t you the one whom informed me?”

“Does it matter? It’s true, right? Never mind, don’t answer that. It wasn’t a fucking question.”

“Language, my young love.”

“Says the man who fucked a five day old corpse in a vintage suit that would buy me half this hotel.”

“If I could I would slit your throat and pull your tongue out through the wound for all this cursing. It isn’t becoming for such a young thing.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you should’ve put a gift shop in this hellhole, written greeting cards when you say things like that?”

“Money is a hassle I haven’t the time to deal directly in.”

“But you’re okay spending it, becoming spent on.. other endeavors?” You can practically hear that chuckling smirk on that rather handsome structure.

“A mortal that knows me so well, ah, what do I have to worry about for a while-”

“Besides my lack of control?” You butt in this time as an add on, this time you hear his laughter. It’s a sound that rumbles through his chest but it affects your own, causing your knees to sway back and forth. C'mon, be angry. Smell the putrid, humid must and moth balls? Remember why you’re here? You tell yourself, choosing to fold your hands back together, giving March the silent treatment, indicating that when you no longer participated in the friendly banter, you were still upset.

“You did it, you bad girl. I can’t let you out right now. Surely you know this?” March cooes on his own exasperated sigh.

You remain mum, drumming your fingers across the beaded pattern of your dress.

You’re up to existing now, drowning out his voice when the music dies down, leaving the labored breathing he harbored for an immortal. You wanna laugh at that, you wanna laugh at how crazy you felt yourself becoming by getting worked up at how good he smelled. That goddamned aftershave, that cologne. Did the fucker die smelling like something out of this world? It wasn’t fair. As if March can sense this, you see his fingertips press underneath the door, coated in a substance that catches your scent. Chocolate?

“I’m not in the mood to be poisoned, March,” You croak the broken statement out, craving the lavish smell, taste buds practically nudging beneath the surface of your tongue.

There was that hearty laugh again, followed by that all to cocky array. “You’ve been out cold longer than you’re aware, love. And you must eat. That mortal body of yours will dissolve without it. You can resist, but then what will become of you? Such a waste over petty fear.”

He had another valid point. He knew that too. You sigh, directing your gaze at the flesh covered treat in the form of two digits. Pointer finger and middle finger. It was degrading as you see he won’t budge to make this move easy for you. So you’re there, on your stomach in a split second, breasts pressed into the cool wood surface below, your cleavage spilling out of the top of the fabric of your dress. You see his mouth, that mustache, those defined features, those hauntingly serene dark eyes clearly now. Mere inches from you on the other side of this door. Bastard.

Your lips part, the dry cracked chap making itself known. You suck March’s fingers past your lips with a popping “mhmph.” greedily taking his offering until it was gone from his fingers, leaving only your saliva in its wake. March is stilled, trying to remain neutral, wanting the upper hand between you two. Well, you had the sugar coursing through your system so he was shit out of luck, as luck would not have it for Mr. James Patrick March tonight.

Your heartbeat sped up until it was churning the blood in your ears through the quiet confines of the room, your pulse thumping against your chest so hard you felt the vibrations overtake your rib cage. This would be the fist dicing move through the mounting tension between you two. And you were the one making it. A virgin. You mentally clapped yourself on the back when you let yourself roll into a mount back onto your back. You lift up your knees until your legs are parted, your right thigh resting against the door.

You give yourself enough seconds to catch your tone up with your nerve, your fingers tugging the garters until they unsnap, releasing your lace panties to your hold. You drag them with ease until they catch on your knees. You leave them, not quite bold enough to shake them completely. When you speak you feel your voice practically absorb the words like a drug, even if you were the one speaking them. “You know what else about me is mortal, James Patrick March?”

He shifts, his form you can feel radiating from the separation of the door. He’s listening, you imagine that intent twitch in his jaw, his fingers that were in your mouth. His taste on your tongue. The murderous hands of the infamous James March were on your breath. It makes you grin rather diabolically, pleasurably as your fingers dance up your soaked slit, your folds parted open, painfully swollen. You dip a finger into the wetness, it coating you automatically with a rather loud noise that you know James can hear. You stir in a second finger until your wetness is sloshing against your clit. You were wet for him. Always so fucking ready for him. Did he knew what you did? Could he watch you through the walls? Or was he ever so polite and refrained?

You grow accustomed to the tugging ache so much so that you crave more. You let a finger curl inside of you now, tugging it sluggishly slow back up your slit. You could hear it now. The ghost that didn’t need oxygen inhaled sharply, practically in your ear. He knew. You could feel your cheeks flushed with the heat of your blood rushing. You watch those red lights dancing rapidly above you, but it’s silent as you give into yourself now, momentarily loosing the nerves, but not the high, the adrenaline of James being just on the other side of you.

You’re aching, your gut twisting so hard that you clench your muscles just to draw on your own torture. Your tongue licks your mouth, the chocolate on your breath. Your body starts to bow up into your hand, ass off the floor in a thrusting rhythm. So close, so… right there… But. You jerk your fingers away, letting your hands drop onto the floor beside you, knuckles hitting the wood. Your eyes close, you breathe in through a tight chest. You bring your fingers up to admire the layered cover of your arousal on your fingertips. Satisfied, but hurting so heart-wrenchingly bad between your legs, you jam your fingers under the door for James.

“You’re right. I need to stay alive to be a mortal. Mortals have heartbeats.. When my heart beats it sends blood out. So fucking slow, James. The heat is so much… it goes right to my pussy.” And there was that vulgar word that you knew would do him in. He’s got your fingers in his mouth, biting painfully as he sucks, rolls his tongue around your arousal, drinking in the evidence you offered him. It’s over before you can finish yourself off with his spit on your fingers.

But what you don’t expect is the door to open, that tall figure in front of you.

James Patrick March stood there, the light behind him illuminating that jet black hair that was slicked to perfection. His dress pants held suspenders over the white dress shirt that he wore. A black silk scarf tucked into it. His eyes were lidded, pupils blown so wide that it was as if his eyes were black, like the midnight your mother warned you to always stay away from, for bad things resided there. You scramble off the floor, your panties giving way and hitting the floor. When you go to pick them up, your bad thing shakes his head, that accent tapping directly into your clit, so commanding you leave the article at your feet.

March kicks the stilettos out of his way, a devilish smirk masking him momentarily. When he speaks you know that he was initiating the first move. “What should I do with your dear aunt’s body, my blue eyed darlin’?”

And you were more than willing to play. “You get me the hell out of this room, and we take care of the bitch together, March.”

His grin jump starts the ache in your stomach, the pressure that causes your legs to squeeze together, your lips parting him into an invitation. And as he fully steps into the room, he closes the door behind the two of you.


End file.
